


Antigone

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Novel Discussions [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Books, Discussion of literature, F/M, M/M, Philosophy, Suicide mention (in book being discussed)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 10:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10569219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: Rather than hiding in the dark, Thomas intends to pull all subterfuge out into the light.  And he's always been incapable of restraint in that regard.  He sees what he wants and he wants to illuminate the world.  So the shadows are gone, the darkness is eviscerated, so peace might be known.There is no peace in John Silver.There is only deception.And between one breath and the next John has gone from peaceful, if strange, companion to retreating viper in the face of Thomas' uncanny brutality. "Tell me," Thomas began.  Smiling thoughtfully as if he truly were interested in what John thought on the subject.  "Have you ever heard of Antigone?"****John and Thomas discuss literature and the nature of a just punishment.





	

In the quieter moments of Captain Flint's past, James McGraw occasionally played fancy with the idea that John Silver and Thomas Hamilton would have enjoyed verbally sparring one another.  Silver with his quick tongue and Thomas with his sharp wit would have made a joust out of it.  One attacking fast and hard while the other fought valiantly to deflect and equally maim the other.  Tearing into the mental fabrics of their constitutions until each were laid bare.  James always saw John losing in these battles.  Frustrated and annoyed with himself more than at Thomas.

James even indulged himself with the faint stirrings of pride that image brought.  Pride in Thomas at being able to eviscerate his opponent just so.  When Captain Flint had felt particularly brutal, James even felt satisfaction at the thought of John being brought to heel. 

The images had been passing fancies.  Dreams he never expected to come to fruition in any sense of the term.  Thomas had been dead, and Silver was still very much alive, and James didn't envy anyone the opportunity to argue with Silver. 

Reality, as ever, is more brutal than a dream.  He's still not entirely sure what caused it.  Thomas had been nothing but polite to John since the man appeared in the night.  There's an edge of darkness that envelopes John like a cloak.  Something that casts dark shadows about the room and seems to snuff the light from every burning wick.  John's eyes are tight with a fiercely narrow gaze, and his posture is as stiff and uncompromising as it had been when they faced down Barringer in Nassau.

James hadn't said anything to the man upon his arrival.  Not truly.  There had been pleasantries exchanged of course.  Met with a vapid grin and a drawling tone.  John's fingers trailed along the furniture as he walked.  His attention an amalgamation between fleeting and far too sharp.  He'd lied about why he'd come, it certainly wasn't a friendly visit between friends.  Lied about who knew he was here, he claimed no one but James had seen Hands lurking just the day before.  Lied about how he was doing, there was blood on the bench he'd seated himself at even though he'd claimed to be unharmed.  He even lied about how long he intended to stay with them.   One day had fallen into one week, and it showed no signs of stopping.

When he'd been Captain Flint, James would never have allowed such transgressions to continue unpunished.  Now, he's simply too tired to bother.  Irritation at his circumstances is a fact of life James McGraw is well used to.  He dedicated himself to ignoring John's abrupt arrival and simply living his own life as he desired to.

That is, until today.  Until Thomas and John no longer seemed capable of pretending they were all friends equally.  Until Thomas did what Thomas always does, and started a conversation.  And John answered in the way John always answered, with lies and deflection and amusement to mask his discomfort.

One moment they were engaging in a mildly civil discourse, and the next – shadows loomed.  Captain Flint peaked out from behind the door James McGraw had locked him behind.  Sensing danger and violence and wanting blood.  John's expression is familiar.  His posture is deadly.  He sits as he sat that day in Eleanor Guthrie's tavern, glaring up at Billy Bones after winning Nassau.  Fury and ire and desperate for justice.

Thomas is unflinching, uncaring.  He moves forward without conscious thought.  He's a hound after a blood trail.  He senses whatever it is John wishes to remain hidden and is determined to draw it out into the light.   _ Know no shame.   _ Whatever Alfred Hamilton had taught his son, it had been the opposite of what he'd intended for certain

Rather than hiding in the dark, Thomas intends to pull all subterfuge out into the light.  And he's always been incapable of restraint in that regard.  He sees what he wants and he wants to illuminate the world.  So the shadows are gone, the darkness is eviscerated, so peace might be known. 

There is no peace in John Silver.

There is only deception.

And between one breath and the next John has gone from peaceful, if strange, companion to retreating viper in the face of Thomas' uncanny brutality. "Tell me," Thomas began.  Smiling thoughtfully as if he truly were interested in what John thought on the subject.  "Have you ever heard of  _ Antigone? _ " John had been playing at sleeping when Thomas asked his question.  His eyes closed and head tilted backwards.  The sun filtered through the window and cast a bright glare over his cheeks. 

His dark curls sprawled over the arm of the bench he'd all but declared his since his arrival.  James had thought John looked like a cat then.  Like Betsey, perhaps.  Relaxing in his spot of sun, not intending to move until food or mischief coaxed him forwards.  James had been so used to Thomas and John's more pleasant interactions that he hadn't thought anything of Thomas' question.  Had simply turned from the room and set about making dinner for the night.

It's been some time since he's read any of the Greek plays, but he remembers  _ Antigone _ from an earlier conversation he'd had with Thomas some years ago.  The titular character had been cast as a tragic heroine who wished only to bury her brother's body that had been left out for the animals to eat following her brother's failed efforts during a civil war.  King Creon forbade anyone for giving it funeral rights, and so she'd done it herself.  She'd been discovered, and after showing no shame in her actions, she was imprisoned. Eventually she'd even been sent to be buried alive in a tomb. 

Creon was warned by his advisors that if the body wasn't properly buried and Antigone wasn't removed from the tomb, the gods would curse him.  He tarried too long, and his inaction led to Antigone, Creon's son, and Creon's wife all committing suicide. 

James sets to washing the vegetables he'd pulled from the ground earlier that day.  Good sized carrots and potatoes that will mix well with the stew he'd been preparing. He was partway through dicing a spud when he wondered idly as to  _ why  _ Thomas started with that story.  And from there, he'd barely had time to turn back to the room before the chaos had started.

If John had been catlike before, he's positively feral now.  Hissing and snapping.  Hackles raised as he glares at Thomas.  "And you take Antigone to be a hero then, someone to be admired?"

"She found a cause in which she felt was just and she dedicated herself to the principle regardless of the consequences that were known to her.  Is that  _ not  _ heroic?"

"Foolish, more like.  She sacrificed herself, and for what?  A handful of dirt and a prayer to the gods who found her actions incomplete at best and absurd at worst.  She began a chain of events that led to those she cared for to  _ suffer _ , and her own life became forfeit in the process.  And you truly believe that she should be considered a  _ hero  _ in such a tale?"

This is Thomas at his best.  Divining logic and reason from metaphor.  Finding truth behind lies.  James falters in the doorway, watching as John's hands tighten at his sides.  His sprawling presence twisting about so he's upright and threatening.  His anger is Thomas' proof.  The final shard of understanding that Thomas had been subtly reaching for since John had first appeared.

And still he continues the farce.  Continues to discuss  _ Antigone _ as though it's his intention to focus all thoughts on literature and literature alone. "But the wisdom gained by Creon could not have been achieved without the sacrifice of Antigone--"

"--You are suggesting that Antigone's purpose was to perpetuate the birth of this knowledge within Creon?  That her death signifies his understanding, and that only through this death he could learn?"

James opens his mouth to interject.  To step in and calm the ire before it grows to something that cannot be reclaimed.  John is capable of many things, but what he is not capable of is holding his despair in check.  He lashes out when cornered.  Swipes and bites and growls.  And he plans always for a future where he is always prepared.  This conversation isn't one he could have predicted.  He doesn't  _ know  _ Thomas, he doesn't know anything about how Thomas thinks or speaks.

Thomas cuts James off with a smile that only serves to further agitate John Silver.  With words that nearly betray the loose metaphor they've been spiraling around, "Is not all wisdom earned through the experience of punishment?  Of sacrifice?"

"Antigone's desperation to give honor to her brother led to her death," John grits out.  Stubborn and refusing to cater to Thomas' brand of insight.  "If Creon learned anything, it is hardly the  _ wisdom  _ you seem to think she imparted on him through that death.  If anything it's the opposite.  Had she not sacrificed herself so foolishly, none of the events would have followed.  The message isn't that he shouldn't have left the body to rot, it's that she shouldn't have disobeyed his edict to begin with."

"And yet he was punished for leaving the body to decay."  

“He wasn’t punished for leaving the body to decay, he wasn’t punished at all.” 

“His son and wife committed suicide by his inaction--”

John cuts his hand through the air.  Slicing it like a sword.  The book he’d been reading prior to Thomas’ questions fell from his lap.  Clattering to the floor and bending pages as it slumps.  “A punishment,” he growls dangerously.  “To be truly effective must match the crime, be swift in its execution, and be understood prior to its receipt.  Otherwise, the punishment is less punishment and more torment for the sake of it.  The lesson imparted to Creon isn’t one of wisdom, instructing him to give honor to the gods.  It’s one to the audience who learn not even Kings are above the gods’ edicts, and they too will face the wrath of a tyrant.” 

James looks between John and Thomas.  Taking in how Thomas scoots forward on his seat.  Light flickering in his eyes as he genuinely seems interested in this new point of view.  “You believe the gods to be tyrannical then?”  And just like that, James is certain Thomas lost the grip he had on John.  The shift from the allegories to something closer to philosophy is sudden and sharp, but John’s demeanor changes in an instant and he throws himself at the chance to explain.  Twisting the story away from where Thomas had been leading it.  And Thomas didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. 

“Certainly they are.  For a lesson to be taught, and for it to be the correct lesson learned, there needs to be a correlation.  If I were to catch a man gambling on my ship, and were to respond by stringing him up by his wrists and ankles and dragging him beneath the haul—would not this  _ punishment  _ be counter-intuitive to the result that I wish to have imparted?” 

“The result is quite the same,” Thomas interjects.  “Whether you shoot the man, have him walk the plank, or keel-haul him as you suggest, he is dead either way.  How should it matter the method in which he dies?” 

There’s a stiffness in John’s shoulders as he shakes his head.  Leaning down to reclaim his lost book and setting it on a nearby stool to rest.  One of his hands has fallen to his left thigh and he rubs it absently as he decides how to respond.  “But by that logic the punishment isn’t for the gambler, it’s for those remaining.  The same too, is then applied to _ Antigone.   _ The punishment is not for Creon but for those around him.  They are to receive the wisdom from the actions, not the man who is in fact most imperiled by them.  Therefore, can it truly be considered a punishment for Creon when Creon is not the one that is being...educated.” 

For several moments Thomas ponders this.  He rubs at his beard absently and taps his toes against the white washed floors.  “But if wisdom has not been imparted to Creon after the events with Antigone, what has been imparted?” 

“Rage.” It’s an answer that James could have guessed John would say.  The shadows are back.  The tension rising in the room once more.  Thomas seems oblivious to them, but James steps forward.  Slipping in closer than he had previously.  John catches his eye and draws himself up somewhat.  Straightening his spine and letting his hair fall forward a touch.  

There is no rage in John’s countenance.  There is no anger.  From the first moments he’d arrived, he had been many things in their home.  But the embodiment of a war fueled pirate had not been one of them.  Anger came from sharp conversation, certainly.  But he hasn’t displayed even the slightest amount of anger towards  _ them.  _

The long lasting rage of Captain Flint that had burned through james for a decade doesn’t exist in John’s visage.  Instead, there’s something closer to exhaustion.  A man who has been treading water for hours and in desperate need of something sturdy to hold on to. 

“What happens when the rage isn’t met?” Thomas asks curiously.  Brazenly.  “You can’t punish the gods after all.” 

John hasn’t moved his eyes from James.  His throat bobs as he swallows, though.  And his fingers press down harder on his left thigh.  “Nothing happens,” John replies.  “You can’t punish the gods, and you cannot change the past.  Perhaps Creon finds another way to fuel his need for reconciliation.  Perhaps he wages war to assuage his hatred.  Perhaps he finds another wife to replace the one that’s been lost.  Perhaps he tries to find a family to build anew, though he knows it’s not the same as the first.  Though he knows he will never reclaim what he’d had before.”

John’s eyes are growing more and more weary with each passing moment.  His body giving way under the battery of the conversation.  James feels words tickling in his throat; he asks, “And if he cannot do those things?” 

And John replies, “Then perhaps he just dies.  Fading from history as a man who was neither successful in his spite, nor capable of overcoming his loss.” 

_ This is a man in defeat,  _ James realizes suddenly.  The punishment outweighing the crime.  The lesson taught not to the one suffering, but to those observing.  What not to do.  Where not to travel.  John’s exhaustion is a palpable thing.  And James yearns to reach out.  Touch his shoulder.  Let Captain Flint free from his cage just long enough to set that spark back into John’s eyes.  

_ Fight.  Be angry.  Let it go.   _ Because fighting means life, and quite suddenly— John seems utterly lifeless on that bench.  

And yet before James could even so much as think about how best to approach the subject, movement at the window alerts him to a different matter.  Thomas has finally seen their observer, and James watches him frown from the corner of his eye. 

James presses a hand to Thomas’ shoulder and gives it a light squeeze.  Keeping him silent as he addresses John.  Knowing full well that this will likely be the last time the speak for a while yet.  "If you're going to continue debating whose sacrifices were more worthy and who learned the greatest from past actions that are not yet discussed, perhaps we can do so after you've returned Hands from whence he came."  John blinks at him uncomprehendingly.  Confusion filling his countenance.  His lips part.  Uncertain.  "He's startling the goats."  James explains slowly, motioning toward the window.  

The goats, are, of course, entirely nonplussed.  They didn't even bleat when Israel approached the porch.  John, however, turns in his seat.  Glares outside to where Israel is certainly  _ not  _ standing, as if he could make the man reappear by his displeasure alone.  "You lied," James feels like pointing out.  If only because igniting something beside despair in John will be necessary if he’s to manage Hands appropriately.  

Hands is kept in check by his loyalty to John’s legacy.  A Pirate King that he wishes to serve and support, so he may be a part of a greater story.  James knows full well the methods Israel has gone through to keep John’s head where it needs to be.  Some, he did not approve of them, and he does not approve of now.  

But they’re necessary.

Sometimes, they’re necessary. 

When Israel still fails to appear in the window as John clearly wishes he would, he growls low in his throat and pushes himself to his feet.  His pegged leg clunks loudly against the floorboards.  Echoing in the house even as John stomps toward the door and throws it open.

His faithful hound is standing just on the other side, out of sight from the window but hardly attempting to hide from John's wrath.  "What the  _ fuck  _ are you doing here?" John growls, likely drawing from his previous anger, though not quite letting it blossom through him as wrath requires. In the face of such irritation, Israel merely huffs. 

"Your wife sent me to find you."  It catches all three of them off guard.  The angry lines in John's back melting away so he's actually hunching over.  Shoulders leaning in, head angling down.  His hair falls and frames his face.  His features hidden from view.  It’s enough to prove what James already knew.  John’s already been defeated.  Broken down by a punishment not meant for him to understand.  "She said to tell you that you best return home before the Queen dies, or any goodwill you think you've earned with her people will be gone before you can even open your mouth to explain where you've been."

"The Queen's ill?" James asks, and the part of him that's Captain Flint pushes harder against that door.  Struggling to break free.  There's a plethora of open wounds where the Maroons are concerned.  And John's presence here only encourages those wounds to fester. 

Israel doesn't even look at him.  Just huffs loudly once more.  Horselike in his braying.  Thomas stands from the comfort of his chair by the fire.  He walks towards them, placing cool fingers around James' elbow and giving it a light squeeze.  They share a look.  Thomas wants to go and meet the Queen before she passes.  He wants to meet the people who framed Captain Flint's life. 

_ You and he are one in the same,  _ Thomas believes.   _ And without the past you are not here. There is nothing to be ashamed about. Not a thing. _

But the door to that life is far too tempting a door to walk through.  Far too tempting a trail to follow.  James isn't certain he can hold himself in check while he's there amongst the people he swore to free. 

John nods stiffly, already leaning forwards as if he intends to follow Israel without even saying goodbye.  He falters though.   Hesitating at the very last moment.  "Antigone wanted to die," John tells Thomas.  He doesn't look back as he says it.  "Her brother was dead, and she wished to join him.  Punishing those around her for her selfishness and loss.  She's not a hero.  She's not even worthy of being called a tragedy.  She's nothing at all.  Just a selfish girl who wanted to spite the world.  And she killed herself before she could find a way out."

"Well then," Thomas murmurs.  "The answer is simple."  John looks back.  Frowning as he does so.  "Don't kill yourself when you've been buried alive.  Help came for her, and she would have lived had she been willing to wait for it."

Israel uncrosses his arms and looks between them with far too serious intent.  Like he intends to rush forward and shake Thomas until he explained himself, or perhaps like he’s  prepared to pull the weapons from John's body and drag him back to the Island bound and gagged.  John doesn't say a word.  Just starts walking away.  He doesn't offer a goodbye.  James doubted he would have said it in the first place.

But now, he cannot help but wonder why.

Israel rushes after John, and James closes the door.  Thomas sighs long and heavy.  "We should prepare for when he returns."

“You believe he will?” James asks. 

Thomas smiles.  “He hasn’t finished his book.” And it’s true.  The book John had been reading is resting on his bench.  Still.  It’s a long time to be thinking about such things.  So he doesn’t think at all.  That, James assumes.  Is likely for the best. 

“But will he live long enough to read it?” He doesn’t like thinking of his friend dying.  Not like this.  Not like that.  

“He will.  He hasn’t lost everything yet.”  Thomas smiles then.  As if the answer had been obvious the whole time.  “Not yet.” 

And somewhere in the recesses of Captain Flint’s memory log, James recalls a half forgotten dream.  Of Miranda in a boat, promising him that he’s not alone.  He looks out after John.  “He’ll come back,” Thomas promises him.  And James hopes it’s true.  The yoke of shame is not yet lifted from his shoulders.  And until it is, John will never be truly happy. 

After everything John’s done, it’s perhaps the only punishment James believes he deserves.  To suffer through happiness...content, and forgiven. 


End file.
